


We Need to Talk About Amos

by ningloreth



Series: The Ghost and Ms Granger [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: There are too many people in Draco and Hermione’s marriage.





	We Need to Talk About Amos

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ Dramionelove 2017 Minifest, using a prompt submitted by **justthedreams** : _Hermione and Draco have a house guest. Everything is fine, until the guest overstays (his/her/its/their) welcome. Bonus points for humour._

“ _He_ ,” Draco growls, “has got to go.”

“He _can't_ go, Draco,” I remind him.

My husband folds his arms across his chest. 

I sigh, and clamber off his naked body; obviously, he’s no longer in the mood. 

“You knew when you asked me to marry you,” I point out, as gently as I can, “that I couldn't just walk out on him, and you knew how protective—”

“ _He_ knew,” says Draco, icily, “that we were having sex. He can tell the difference between a woman screaming in ecstasy—”

“Ecstasy,” I agree.

“—and screaming in fucking _pain_.” He turns his back on me. “He interrupts us because he's jealous.” 

I look at his rigid shoulders, and I know that, despite my husband's passionate nature, _and_ the tantalising array of potions on his bedside cabinet, _and_ all of my research into techniques both ancient and modern, sex is off.

The alarm chimes.

“Oh... _fuck_ ,” says Draco.

…

“ _You_ ,” I tell the ghost who is floating in his favourite spot, high up in the bay window of the shop, “are in big trouble.”

Amos Figge, founder of _Amos Figge His Bookshoppe_ , born 1565, died 1607 of a surfeit of pickled plums—a euphemism, if ever I heard one—doesn’t deign to reply.

When I bought my tiny bit of paradise—a tall, half-timbered shop, just off Diagon Alley, overflowing with four centuries-worth of second hand books—what the vendor neglected to tell me was that it came with a free business partner. Fortunately, despite Amos’s conviction that he's still the owner of the bookshop, my boss, and responsible for my moral and physical welfare, he and I get along pretty well.

He and Draco, on the other hand, do not.

Draco came back into my life a couple of years ago. He was looking for an ancient book of erotic potion recipes, hoping they’d give his potions company a Unique Selling Proposition, and he offered to help me sort out my finances and get the bookshop into profit, suggesting we make Amos the ‘face’ of the business, complete with his own fan club and merchandise. 

I suppose it was inevitable, given our past history, that Draco and I would find ourselves attracted to one another and that, eventually, we'd start experimenting with his sex potions...

“ _Two bigge jackanapes pass by_ ,” says Amos, craning his neck to see past the window display.

But then, out of the blue, Draco asked me to marry him!

I love him to bits. And our sex life, when not rudely interrupted by you-know-who-two, is... 

I grin.

(I seem to be grinning an awful lot, these days).

“ _THEY DO APPROACH THE SHOPPE!_ ”

Amos's terrified squawk makes me jump but, before I can get to the window to see why he's panicking—

“ _HIIIIIIIIIDE!_ ” he yells and, with outstretched arms, he poltergeists me into the Muggle section, and pushes me down to the floor.

“ _What the—?_ ”

Amos tries to clamp a ghostly hand over my mouth and fails, but the sensation’s so weird it still has the desired effect. From my hiding place, I peer through a gap in the shelves. Two men—I'm using the term loosely—squeeze through the door, and shove it shut behind them. One of them thumps the bell for service and, when service doesn’t arrive, the other knocks over a display table as though it's giving him a funny look. 

Books tumble, and I can only imagine the damage.

I scowl at Amos. Then, _Accio parchment and pen_ , I think, taking care, in my summoning, to guide them to our hiding place unseen. 

—WHAT'S GOING ON?

Hominid number one is hammering the bell again.

Amos spreads his hands helplessly, but I've seen what he can do when he wants to, and I focus all of my fury and skewer him with it. Reluctantly, he moves the pen:

—THE JADE PROUED FIT FOR NAUGHT BUT THE MAKING OF SOAP.

_Jade?_

—YOU MEAN YOU'VE BEEN GAMBLING ON HORSES?!

And I’m wondering, _How on earth...?_ but I know that now isn't the time to ask.

—'TWAS ONE HORSE. AND A MEERE PASSING FANCY.

—HOW MUCH DO YOU OWE?

_And to whom? What idiot would send two enormous Squibs to terrorise a dead bookshop owner?_

“Crowe wants his ten thousand Gallies, Figge,” one of the hominids calls, answering both of my questions. 

I look daggers at Amos, mouthing, _Ten thousand?_

Amos at least has the decency to look sheepish.

…

Moments later, the Squibs find us.

“Well, well, well,” says number one. “Who's the tart, Figge?”

“ _I_ ,” I say, scrambling to my feet and trying to look intimidating, “am the owner of this bookshop, and you”—I pluck a number out of the air—“owe me one hundred and fifty Galleons for the books you've just destroyed.”

Hominid number two laughs; it's not a reassuring noise: “You’ve got some balls, lady.”

Number one ignores me, and turns to Amos: “Crowe wants—”

“What sort of fool,” I demand, aggressively, “bets with a ghost? Surely your ‘Crowe’ realises that a ghost has no material possessions?”

“I wasn't talking to you,” says the Squib, and swats me like a fly.

I, though, am far too fast for him and, as I’m ducking down, I whip out my wand and aim it at his chest: “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

He looks more surprised than the average petrified person. 

The other Squib tries to grab me, but the frozen bulk of his companion fills the space between the shelves, forming a solid barrier—and it crosses my mind that it may be hard to extricate Amos and myself from the corner I’ve just backed us into. 

_Perhaps I should Apparate away and leave Amos to it..._

“Crowe wants the chest of gold you’ve got downstairs,” says the second hominid.

I turn to Amos in surprise, recognise his poker face, and laugh out loud: “You think he’s got treasure hidden in the basement?!”

The Squib would kill me if he could reach me. 

“If you don’t pay up by midnight,” he says to Amos, “we’ll be back with a Warlock, and he’ll kill your tart and exorcise _you_.”

He grasps his companion and, using him as a shield, backs out of the shop, knocking things over left, right and centre as he manoeuvres both massive bodies through the narrow gaps.

When he’s gone, I sit down on the floor and bury my head in my hands. 

It’s not the threats, for I’ve held my own against Death Eaters, and it’s not the money, though I certainly don’t have ten thousand Galleons to throw away. It’s not even that Amos has deceived me, because I’m used to his devious ways. No, it’s the feeling that Amos has made me his accomplice, and that Draco will be disappointed in me.

“ _Mayhap_ ,” says Amos, reading my mind, as usual, “ _you might summone your husbande?_ ”

I draw my wand and send my Patronus scurrying off, flapping the tiny little dragon-wings it's recently sprouted.

...

Draco arrives in a matter of moments.

“Granger! What in Merlin’s name’s happened?” He sits down beside me and puts an arm around me, and his touch is like a Reassurance Spell. I lay my head on his shoulder. “Who did this?”

I tell him about Amos and his gambling, and about Crowe and his two Squibs. Draco looks up at Amos: “I take it you don’t actually have any treasure?” he asks.

“Of course he doesn’t,” I say.

“ _I do confess 'twas a falsehoode_ ,” says Amos.

“Merlin, Figge, I should exorcise you myself!”

“No, Draco,” I say wearily, because, whatever he may have done, Amos is family.

Draco sighs. “All right...” He gives me a little squeeze. “Look, as it happens,” he says to me, “I know Augustus Crowe. He’s a bastard, but he plays by the rules. Once you’ve settled a debt with Gus, that’s it.” 

I look at my husband and, for a moment, I glimpse the very bad boy he used to be before we got together... 

_Later_ , I promise myself.

“I’ll give you the money,” Draco says to Amos, “but there are conditions.”

“He’ll do anything—won’t you Amos?”

“ _I... Indeede_ ,” says Amos.

“He will,” I say, firmly.

“Right,” says Draco, “first, no more gambling.” He waits for Amos to agree, and when Amos says nothing, he repeats: “First, no more gambling; secondly, no more smuggling strippers into the basement—”

I gasp.

“—thirdly, no more watching porn on Hermione’s eye-pad—”

“You’ve been watching _porn_?!”

“ _I haue a weaknesse_ ,” says Amos.

I'm torn between admiration, that he's managed to poltergeist my iPad without destroying it, and a deep, discovering-your-parents-still-have-sex, distaste. Then I remember that Draco and I both make a living out of Tudor porn and realise I have no room to talk. 

“There are living men and women,” says Draco, “who would give their wand hand to have what you have, Figge—fame, young female fans... _Hermione_ , who—Merlin only knows why—thinks the world of you. Don’t throw it all away.”

“ _I shalle do better in future_ ,” says Amos—though whether he means he'll be good, or merely that he’ll be more careful about getting caught, I can't tell; I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Draco is less suspicious: “I’ll get the money this afternoon, then,” he says. “I'll owl Crowe on your behalf, and I’ll be in the back when you hand it over, just in case. Now give me and my wife some privacy.”

Amos sweeps off his big, swashbuckling hat—which has suddenly appeared upon his head—and, with an elaborate flourish, sinks into a low bow, then he rises, and floats away. 

I don't think I've ever known him leave without a parting shot before...

“Thank you,” I say to Draco.

Smiling, my husband leans in, and gives me a long and tender kiss. When he pulls back, his cocky grin makes my heart leap. “I’ve got a belated wedding present for you, Granger,” he says.

Still smiling, he leads me outside, down the narrow alleyway at the side of the bookshop, to the building at its rear. It's an ancient, half-timbered tavern, with a solid oak door, securely locked, and diamond-paned windows, too grimy for me to see through. It looks as though it closed one evening, in Elizabethan times, and the landlord just forgot to open it again...

“I don't understand,” I say.

“I’ve bought it for you,” says Draco, taking an old, iron key from his magically extended breast pocket and holding it out to me. “We’ll knock a door through from the bookshop, and turn it into our living quarters.”

“Because Amos can't leave the shop,” I say, following his reasoning. “I won't be abandoning him, but we’ll still have our own private space!”

“Exactly! We’ll have a ghost-free bedroom, a ghost-free bathroom, ghost-free stairs, a ghost-free fireside rug, a ghost-free kitchen table... Have I missed anywhere?”

“Draco! You’re a _genius_!” I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you!”

“Just a bit of Slytherin lateral thinking,” he says.

“Can we go inside _now_?” I ask. “I mean, can we—you know—christen it?”

“Merlin, Granger, you have a one track mind...”

“Dirt track,” we finish, together.

Laughing, he lifts me in his arms and, opening the door with an Alohomora Charm (and closing it behind us with a _Colloportus_ ), he carries me over the threshold.

The parlour feels warm and cosy, and it's surprisingly clean, with a faint, fruity smell of fresh ale, and sweet rushes, and lavender. 

Draco sits me down on one of the heavy, oaken tables and sets about ravishing me, pushing up my skirt and vanishing my underwear, seizing me with insistent hands and claiming me with demanding kisses.

I struggle against his onslaught, needing desperately to find his fly and rip it open so I can free his big cock and hold it, straining, in my hands.

“Oh god, Draco,” I moan in his ear, “I want this inside me.”

We’ve no need for foreplay, nor any of the potions we usually enjoy; I love him and he knows my body.

It begins with a firm, hard thrust and it builds quickly—hands clutching, mouths hungry—to frantic pounding and full-throated screaming, until we come, suddenly, almost together, clinging to one another as we ride out the waves.

Then Draco sinks down on me with a groan of satisfaction, and I hold him in my arms, still intimately coupled with him.

An age seems to pass in blissful contentment. 

“I love you,” I breathe, at last, marvelling at the way that lust can enhance the purest of emotions.

“I know,” he answers. He pushes himself up on his hands, and slowly pulls out of me. His cock’s still swollen, but it’s soft now, hanging heavily, and my body thrills at the sight of it. I reach out...

“Ah-ah,” he says, catching my hand. “I need to go and get that money.” He grins wickedly, his grey eyes full of promises, and, raising my hand to his lips, he kisses my fingers.

...

When he’s gone, I lie back on the table and use my hand to recapture some of our pleasure. I don’t want to go back to the bookshop yet; I don’t want to leave our wonderful new home— 

“ _Hello, dearie_ ,” says a cheerful voice. 

Shocked, and blushing hard, I sit up. 

There’s a rosy-cheeked serving wench standing by the bar, all meaty arms and an enormous bosom, spilling out of a tightly-laced bodice, and, as I stare at her, she floats towards me, holding a tray of tankards aloft. 

“ _Faith, thou ’ast got thyselfe a pistol there, dearie_ ,” she says, in a broad, country accent, winking at me as though we're already the best of friends. “ _’Twill be a joy to watch him doing the busynesse_.”

**THE END**


End file.
